


With a Twist

by bendingsignpost



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angels, Arranged Marriage, Bodyswap, Demons, Love Letters, M/M, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories prompted by cliches submitted to my tumblr ask box. Superheroes, arranged marriage, anonymous love letters and more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arranged Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> Arranged marriage for thespanishcockerel.

John sits somewhat awkwardly in the Holmes’ receiving room. In this match of titles to wealth, it is readily clear where the wealth resides. The titles, on the other hand, are much less clear in John’s posture and bearing.  _Doctor_ and  _Captain_  are the only ones he lays claim to with any regularity. The others, inherited, fit like a moldy waistcoat three sizes too small. 

At last, the far door opens, elaborately carved wood moving on silent hinges. A man leans in, his gaze sharp across the sizable room. His eyes flick down John the once, then back up to the crown of his head. 

Before John can register more than dark hair and incredible cheekbones, the man vanishes, slamming the door behind him. 

Stunned, half-risen from his seat, John hesitates before standing fully. When nothing else happens, John approaches the door and tries the handle. Locked. 

Frowning, John bypasses the sofa, instead going to the door he’d entered by. Unlocked. He finds his way around fairly quickly, having experience in old, immense houses. The increasingly loud shouting match is also a hint. 

“—you would have loathed him, Sherlock.”

“That was the  _point_! What am I supposed to do with this one? I want a money-grubbing fool I can torment, not a self-sacrificing lamb!”

“You could consider speaking with him.”

“No. I demand an alternative!”

“It’s much too late, I’m afraid. Mummy’s quite set on him. Excellent family until the sister lost the fortune on gambling and drink.”

John reaches the room housing this argument without being spotted by any of the household staff. Some old habits are always worth keeping. He knocks on the door. Immediately, the voice inside silence themselves. 

John opens the door. “Excuse me,” he says to the man from before and his slightly taller brother. “If you want me to be a complete arse, I can arrange that. Won’t be a problem in the slightest.” He smiles his politest. 

The man from before—certainly Sherlock Holmes—stares at him for a long, hard seven seconds, each counted out in excruciating precision by the grandfather clock behind him. Then Sherlock Holmes sighs and turns to his brother. 

“Fine. I’ll have him.”


	2. Stuck Somewhere in Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuck somewhere in winter for Lifeonmars.

“This is absurd,” Sherlock complains for the twenty-eighth time that day. Possibly he’s only doing it to stay warm.

“Mmhm,” John hums, not looking up from his book. He only just managed to arrange the blankets and torch just the way he wants them.

“John!”

“Mm.” John looks up.

“This is a ridiculous waste of time.”

“How many London winters have you been through?” John asks. “It’s like you forget this happens every year.”

“It’s  _two centimetres of snow!_   _Two_ , John! Just  _two!_ ”

“Yep,” John answers. “Welcome to London.”

Sherlock fumes around a bit more before attempting to burrow onto the sofa. He mashes his face into the blankets over John’s lap, demanding attention. 

“You didn’t charge your mobile before the power outage, did you?”

Miserable in his defeat, Sherlock groans out his unending despair. 

John pats his head and keeps reading. 


	3. Matching Soulmate Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matching soulmate marks for Pockyfox.

When Sherlock developed his marking at the age of twelve years, seven months and eight days, his mother screamed. 

Alarmed as never before, Sherlock scrambled to his feet, sand clinging to his swimming trunks and the skin of his back. Screeching, sea gulls fly away. “Mummy?”

“Oh,” she gasped upon seeing him stand. “Oh.” She pressed her hand to her heart, face flushed beneath the wide brim of her sunhat. “Oh. Crumpets. Sherlock, darling—come, come here.”

“Mummy, what’s—”

“It’s all right,” she says. “Oh, oh my. Mummy was startled, that’s all. Come here, let Mummy see you.”

Mummy only ever spoke in the third person when trying to calm him. This did not calm him. When his mother’s gaze flickered between his chest and his face, Sherlock finally thought to look down. 

His left shoulder, pristine only this morning, now sported a shattered webbing of scars. Their raised centre was a round hole, black. When he poked it, he felt no pain, no bumps. The entirety of it was an optical illusion, morbid and fascinating. 

Sherlock loved it instantly. 

With a shout, his father came dashing over the dunes, thoroughly interrupting Sherlock’s first moment of youthful romance. Certain thoughts with Mummy present were awkward but still acceptable. 

“It’s all right, dear!” Mummy called to Father. 

“Mummy thought someone shot me to death, but I’m fine,” Sherlock confirms. He prods at it again, then covers the marking with his hand. 

“Of course you are,” his father sighs, entirely out of breath. 

Mummy brushes wet sand off his back. “Oh, there’s a bit more back here.”

“Really?” Sherlock spun in a tight circle, attempting to see it, then promptly ran off to use the car mirror. When he found the exit wound, he jumped up and down with glee. 


	4. Anonymous Love Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous love letters for icantcomeupwithanygoodname.

It takes John a year before he can turn comments on the blog back on. He’s not sure why he does it, honestly. It’s been a year, the world has moved on, and yet, somehow, this is the only thing he can do to commemorate his best friend’s death. 

Christ, that’s depressing. 

He enables the comments without telling anyone. He’s not sure why he’s surprised to receive no responses. No, John and Sherlock are old internet sensations, long in the past. 

Over the next few months, a few comments do come in. Little things like “I always reread this one when I’m bored. Dunno why. :)” Mostly, it’s spambots. There are some anons as well, and those John typically has to delete. 

The only one he replies to is short and to the point: “You have a typo in the third paragraph, second sentence.”

John answers, “Thanks.” He corrects the typo. 

A day later, the reply comes: “Thank you. It was bothering me.”

For no reason John can name, he edits the entry and puts in ten fresh typos. 

An hour later, a new reply: “Not funny.”

“It is a bit funny,” John types. 

“Change them back. Also, reconsider your use of the passive voice.”

“Everyone’s a critic.” John changes back eight of the typos. 

“ _All_  of them.”

John changes back the ninth. 

“You’re unamusing in the extreme.”

John adds three more. 

“If you focused on your writing, you could excel at it. This is simply childish.”

For a long moment, John has no idea how to reply. Then he answers, “Whats childish?”

He receives no more replies. 


	5. Superhero AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superhero AU for intoteacups.

“Ah, there you are,” drawls the man tied to the chair. “You’re running late. The bomb’s set to go off in forty seconds, off you go.”

Through the eyeholes of his mask, John stares at the bloke before blinking and resuming the only sane course of action. He grabs the bomb, a conveniently light one, then flies out the window. He chucks it up as high as he can, mouthing silent apologies to London’s Air Traffic Control. It explodes like a supernova, harmless due to its distance. 

John returns into the abandoned office building. “All right there?” he asks. 

“Just fine,” the man replies, straining against the ropes this way and that. 

“I’ll have you untied in a second.”

“No, wait…” The ropes loosen and the man continues to push at them until he can climb out of the chair. “There. I’m fine.”

“You couldn’t have done that earlier?”

“I could have, but where’s the sense in being kidnapped by a supervillain if one never sees the hero?” The man smiles. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Uh,” John begins, but the man simply walks past him, out in the hall, and down the stairwell. 

 

The following morning, John’s running late for his shift at the surgery. Of course he is. Can’t fly in this outfit, though. Shit. He tries to jog at normal, human speeds, but it's much too easy to make a mistake that way.

He hails a cab and climbs in only for another bloke to barrel in after him. 

“Oi!”

“Hello again,” the man from last night greets him. 

John stares. “Who the hell-?”

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to meet you, Dr Watson.”


	6. Office Romance AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Office romance AU for jabberwocky101.

The first time was an accident. The second time might have been an accident as well. The third time, Sherlock’s temper was wearing thin, undercover position or not. 

By the fifth, Sherlock is murderous. 

“I am so sorry,” are the first words out of John Watson’s mouth. “I swear, I’m not doing this on purpose.”

“Have you considered switching to decaf?” Sherlock asks in his affected accent. It fits his persona of the moment: tough, lower-middle class, and vaguely Scottish. He wheels out the bucket and mop before once again cleaning up the coffee spill in the break room. 

Disgustingly apologetic, Watson puts out the wet floor sign without prompting. Then he simply  _stands_  there, watching Sherlock mop, like a dog having its nose rubbed in its own accident. 

“You can go now,” Sherlock prompts irritably. 

“I’m really sorry.”

“I’ve noticed.” 

Watson entirely fails to move. 

Sherlock glares harder. 

“…Look,” Watson says. “I just…” He rubs at his forehead. “I’ve nerve damage in my shoulder and my hand shakes when I try to pour.”

“Recent injury: you’re not used to it yet. And you’re stubborn.”

“Exactly,” Watson says, then blinks. “How did you…?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Office gossip.” He can claim to know almost anything off of office gossip. “Just pour over the sink next time.”

“Oh. Right, good idea. Sorry. I should have thought of that.” 

Somehow, Sherlock refrains from bludgeoning the company’s new medical consultant to death with a coffee-scented mop. He comes very close to it. 

Later, he returns to fetch back the wet floor sign. Some idiot’s hidden it somewhere. Typical. Sherlock takes a moment to sort out the likely culprit, frowns, and sees to the janitor’s closet to confirm his theory. Immediately after, he locates Watson’s desk, thoroughly interrupting the man’s attempts to type with a grand total of two fingers. 

“Don’t move the sign.”

Watson twitches in his seat. Combat reflexes are obvious. 

“I don’t need you to be helpful,” Sherlock explains. “I need you to stop spilling coffee.”

“Right,” Watson says. “Sorry.”

Sherlock nods, then searches for something else to say. There must be something, but he can’t think of anything. Strange. 

Staring up at him, Watson doesn’t seem to mind. 

“See you,” Sherlock says. 

Watson smiles. 


	7. Angel/Demon AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel/Demon AU for Vyc.

“I know you’re there,” John whispers into the darkness of the cave. He folds his wings tightly against his back and leans inside. “Unless you want me to start shining, say something, you git.”

“Language,” chides a dark, deep voice, as if the cave itself were speaking. 

“I’m fairly certain it’s not a sin to insult a demon.”

“Harbouring aggression, verbal abuse, consorting with the Enemy… Need I go on?”

“Sherlock,  _please_.”

A pause. “Something’s happened.” No question, never a question. 

“Will you please come out?” John asks. 

A low grumble before a shape appears, dragging itself from the shadows. Ebony wings stretch beneath the moonlight, unfurling in what any other angel would call intimidation. John recognises the sprawl for what it is: personality. The rebellion of free will, stolen, not granted. 

It suits his friend far too well. 

“…Something’s changed,” Sherlock observes, his eyes a faded grey where they were once the silver of starlight. “You’ve not Fallen, but this isn’t a mission from on high.”

“No,” John whispers. 

“Are you afraid someone will overhear? We’re quite alone. I hardly rebelled to follow the rest of the rabble.”

“I know,” John says. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You can tell Father—”

John shakes his head. 

Sherlock pauses. 

“I asked Him a gift,” John says. “Prayed. After the last battle.” He touches the scar seared into his being, through his shoulder and into the base of his left wing. “He answered it.”

“And yet it still pains you. Why?”

“That’s not what I asked for,” John says. 

“Then… You didn’t.”

John lifts his chin. 

“ _John._ ”

“I wanted to know if it was worth it,” John explains. His wings shift against his back, uneasy. “I knew I’d never have permission to come ask you, so… I applied your methods. I had to experience.”

Sherlock’s eyes grow wide. “He granted free will to you?”

John nods. 

“How?”

“Well, I did ask politely.”

A pause, and they both laugh in their own ways, a scoff to a snicker. They catch and hold each other’s gaze. 

“I’m not sure what else to do now,” John admits. 

With a devilish smile upon angelic lips, Sherlock replies, “We’ll think of something.”


	8. Stripper AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stripper AU for april-likes-things.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER IS NSFW.

John loves his mates. He does. Really, he does. 

But godfucking _dammit_ , does he wished they never got drunk last week. Supportive was one thing, but the correct response to "John, I think I've gone bender for Max" was something a bit like "You know, Rob, I don't know if he likes blokes or not, but good luck." It was  _not_ "I think I might maybe be bi, sort of." 

Much, much too late to take that back now. Not when they are Finding Out and already paid twenty quid apiece just to get through the door. When John had planned to visit a strip joint after coming home from his first deployment, he had planned on one with a few more breasts than this one advertised. 

"Fuck, I'm gay," Rob concludes within five minutes, but at least he sounds happy about it. "God, this explains  _so much._ "

Before Rob can tell him anything John would never be able to sear out of his memory--they dated some of the same girls in uni and John doesn't need any of those details--John buys them both drinks. The bartender promptly compliments him on his cute boyfriend. 

"We're not--Right, thanks." John accepts the beers. 

Three drinks later, John's slowly dying of either embarrassment or arousal. He's honestly not sure. He can't quite go for the camp ones and the excessively muscled ones just remind him of his army mates and this entire thing was a terrible idea. So when Rob leans in to shout "I'm gonna buy a lapdance!" in John's ear, John wishes him well, promises to stay put, and tells himself that hiding in the bathroom may not work in this particular establishment. 

He sits through the next routine with a dull sort of arousal, not quite sure how much of this is going to end up as wanking material. He's honestly not paying attention as the DJ announces the next stage name, but the moment the man walks out, John sits up straight. 

In what seems to be nothing less than a full, sinfully tailored suit, the man emerges onto the walk. He is jarringly, beautifully out of place, and then he begins to move. The tie is first, loosened in rough, rhythmic pulls. He pulls it over his head rather than untie it completely, the motion popping up his collar. He doesn't simply move. He stalks. 

Young, younger than John, early twenties at best, the man eyes his audience with the boredom of a cat and the same lush sensuality. He dangles the tie from his fingers before letting it drop, before he starts to slide out of his suit jacket. 

Then, mid-motion, his eyes catch on John. 

Those eyes leave him just as quickly, leave him almost nauseous with arousal. Fuck. Off comes the jacket. Beneath, only a white vest, tight above trousers tighter still. His belt buckle flashes as he takes to the pole. Dear god, that fabric. Over his bum, it's just... God. 

The second bout of eye contact is just as sudden as the first, but far from fleeting. And then the third. 

By the fourth, it becomes obvious the man's routine has begun to gravitate around John. He's effectively having sex with the pole, and it looks like better sex than John's had with actual people. When the man leaves the pole to strip off his belt, he does so walking toward the other end of the stage, but he looks back over his shoulder to John. 

Catcalls and wolf whistles fill the air as blood fills John's face and cock. Part of the show. God, has to be. John watches the vest and belt come off from a distance.

The man returns to open his fly, grinding his ass against the pole and giving John the best  _fuck me_ eyes John's ever seen. He shimmies out of those trousers, bending over all the way to push them down, and it nearly sets his face on level with John's. A flicker of a grin there, a trace of amusement, and then the man is gone again, working the rest of the crowd. 

With the routine nearly at an end, John slumps in disappointment but can't sit back. On the man's way out, music still playing, he slings his jacket over his shoulder, hiding only the curve of his back, not the curve of his bum or the colour of his pants. When he reaches John, he stops, drops the jacket and takes to the pole one final time, grabbing up the abandoned tie while entirely upside-down.

No sooner do his feet set back down than he beckons to John. John stands without thinking, leaning forward, and the man slips the tie over John's head before easing up the knot. From very far away, John hears a roar of rowdy voices and laughter, whistling too, but directly in his ear, he hears, "Interest in all, crass. In none, icy. In one? Oh  _my_."

John gapes up at him. The man grins down before rocking John back into his seat with a light shove. He picks up his jacket and struts away with it exactly as the music ends. 

Bi, John thinks as the ribbing starts, the teasing and the flirting. Definitely bi. 


	9. Body Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Body swap for Persian Slipper.

At 11:43 PM, John unlocks the front door via the newly installed keypad. He enters with a strange sounding sigh and climbs up the stairs, careful to keep a hand on the railing and more careful still not to look at that hand. 

“Sherlock!” he calls up, hearing the sound of the telly. “Mrs Hudson! It’s John!”

“Sitting room!” someone shouts back. The voice is female, but that means nothing these days. 

John enters to find a boy and a woman sitting upon sofa and armchair. He knows them by their positions first, their body language second. 

“About time you showed up,” Sherlock whinges, blue housecoat draped over his shoulders. His new arms are thick, his eyes brown and as dark as his skin. John politely ignores the breasts. 

“Where were you off to, John, dear?” Mrs Hudson asks, her voice high enough to be a bit androgynous. She could be her own grandson, provided someone along the line married a ginger. 

“Woke up in Scotland this time,” John answers. 

“With a penis,” Sherlock complains. 

Mrs Hudson contorts her freshly youthful face into the semblance of a familiar expression. “He’s been like that all day.”

Sherlock folds his arms around his legs, wobbles dangerously in his seat, and pouts. 

“What was that about Mycroft sorting this out soon?” John asks. 

“Mycroft called from India this morning,” Sherlock answers. “We’ll see where he wakes up tomorrow, but none of the airlines are running with their pilots swapping bodies every time they cross the dayline.”

John sighs before lowering his much too large body down into his armchair. A bit morbidly, he looks over his tattoos. 

“It’s nice to have everyone home again,” Mrs Hudson says at 11:58. 

“I’ll try and make it again tomorrow,” John promises. 

Sherlock grunts. 

11:59.

00:00.


	10. Coffee Shop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coffee Shop AU for ninaitwa.

Not for the first time, John regrets volunteering to mind Harry's shop. Yes, God yes, he's glad Harry's in rehab. He only wishes there was someone else to play barista in her absence. But, no, she'd only agreed to the intervention after half of her staff quit. John smells of coffee now even before coming to work in the morning. At least business is slow. 

John takes the orders as they come, grateful when they're simple, smiling with gritted teeth when they're not. At least the limp makes most take pity on him, something he'd reject at any other point in his life. It's not so bad when it's mums and teenagers, but the ponce who just walked in is going to be a problem. 

"One of everything," rumbles a deep baritone in a long coat.

John stares. "Sorry," he says. "What?"

"One of everything," the man repeats, clearly annoyed already. Christ, he's going to be a shit tipper. 

"One with everything?"

"One  _of_ everything."

"...Right. Liquids or solids?"

The man glares at him as if John is the bewildering one. "I said ' _everything_ '."

"O...kay." The baked goods are simple enough, but the liquids pose a challenge. "Do you mean every size?"

"God, are you  _deaf?_ "

"No, you're just bloody vague! Do you want one of every item on the menu, or do you want one of every size with every combination, possibly including one I've spat in?"

"Oh," the man says. "Every item in every size, nothing added."

"Including decaf?"

"No. Not decaf."

"Then it's not  _everything_ , is it?" John asks. 

The man has the grace to chuckle. 

John proceeds to fill the longest order of his life, wondering how the hell the man is going to take the stuff away. He also makes the man pay up front before he lets his one assistant for the day so much as touch the dark brew. There's no way he's letting this git walk away after placing that order.

When the order is filled, no fewer than six police officers come in to carry it out all, each of them looking like they're about to punch the git in the coat right in his face. 

The man tucks a fifty pound note into John's tip jar and winks. "Afternoon."

John stares at him on his way out, entirely befuddled. That night, during Harry's ten minute phone call, he tells her the story and she absolutely refuses to believe him. 


	11. Idol/Fan - John as Idol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idol/Fan, John as idol, for the-witch-who-lived-on-jesus-st.

“The autopsy report’s on my desk,” Lestrade calls over his shoulder. He pours his coffee before turning and leaning back against the counter, watching the flurry that is Sherlock Holmes desperate for something interesting. Donovan glares at him across the office and Lestrade simply grins. She rolls her eyes. 

A loud squeak distracts them both. 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asks. “You all right in there?”

Frozen save for the tremble of paper in his hands, Sherlock stares at the autopsy report with a wide-eyed fascination Lestrade’s never seen out of him before, not even for the most thorough of serial killers. 

“Sherlock, what is it?”

“There’s a new forensic pathologist at Bart’s,” Sherlock answers, voice still high. God, that squeak  _had_  come from him. 

Distinctly clearing her throat, Donovan picks up her laptop and relocates. She mouths  _What is he doing?_  at Lestrade and Lestrade can only shrug helplessly. As long as Sherlock solves the case without killing anyone else, Lestrade isn’t terribly off-put by the sudden squeaking. Reminds him of his daughter, actually, which puts this entire thing in sudden, bizarre context. 

“Do you recognize the signature on the report?” Lestrade asks, approaching behind the shield of his coffee mug. 

Sherlock turns and holds the report toward him with both hands, his eyes shouting  _Look, look, look at it!_  His mouth is in a strange, ever-changing configuration. 

“…Doctor’s handwriting, Sherlock. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“How can you not  _know_?” Sherlock demands. He turns the report around again and quickly scans through it. “God, it’s flawless.”

“…Right.”

By this point, Sherlock has begun to tremble somewhat. 

Lestrade clears his throat and starts to steer Sherlock out of his office. “Look, if you can solve this before the day’s out, we’ll go round and introduce you, all right?” Anything to make him fight crime faster. 

Sherlock feet abruptly fuse to the carpet. His mouth works and he stares at Lestrade blankly, his hands clutching at the report. 

“All right?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock utters the verbal equivalent of someone banging on their keyboard. 

“Right then,” Lestrade says. “Off you go, get too it.”

Sherlock comes unstuck and practically jogs away without another word. Befuddled but nevertheless amused and smug, Lestrade sips at his coffee until he hears the ding of the elevator and realises Sherlock’s taken the autopsy report with him. “Oi!”


	12. Matron of Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock and John pretend to be married for a case. Mrs. Hudson doesn't realize they are kidding." Anon prompt on tumblr.

“Yoohoo! Boys!” Mrs Hudson calls from downstairs. 

John winces and rolls out of bed, grabbing his trousers off the floor on the way. “Where are my pants?” he whispers. 

“Get a fresh pair.” Sherlock fishes John’s previous pair out from underneath his flushed chest. “These are damp.”

“Shit.” John pulls his trousers on sans pants. He calls down, “Coming, Mrs Hudson!” Tugging on a fresh t-shirt, he lowers his voice and adds, “Sherlock, I swear to God—”

“Yes,  _I_  was the loud one. Why else would your pants be soaked with  _my_ saliva?”

“You are the loud one,” John hisses, snatching the damp pants and sticking them back into Sherlock’s mouth. “Now stay.”

Sherlock grins, teeth bright against the red fabric. 

John jogs downstairs to find Mrs Hudson on their landing. He smiles reflexively. “Sorry, I was taking a nap. How’re you?”

“Oh, you know me,” she says. Her smile keeps fading around the corners and her eyes don’t help it in the slightest. “I just—I brought up some of your mail. Keeps being sorted into mine. They left the ‘B’ off, you see.” She holds out the envelopes. 

“Thanks,” John says, taking them automatically. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

She nods. “Oh yes. A bit dull, really.” She laughs a little, clearly encouraging him to laugh along. 

John frowns. “Has Sherlock done something?” When she hesitates, he adds, “Have  _I_ done something?”

She waves her hand as if to shoo the very thought away, but her expression crumbles. “It’s not that I’m upset,” she says. “I’m very—I’m quite happy for you. I really—I am. I only thought—” Here, she turns her face to the side and visibly tries to take hold of herself.  

“Oh, God, what is it?” His hands hover uselessly between them, mail in one, the other empty. 

“I understand you’re very private, but I would have thought you’d say _something_ ,” Mrs Hudson says. 

With that, Sherlock half-tumbles, half-leaps down the stairs to rumble to an abrupt stop behind John. He’s wearing John’s bathrobe, which means there is an incredible amount of leg on display. Mrs Hudson doesn’t look surprised in the least, not even at the way John hurriedly steps in front of the half-naked human whirlwind.

“We just thought you… knew,” John says. “I mean, we were trying to keep quiet, but we thought you, um.”

Sherlock clears his throat. 

“Just, well,” John continues, “from the way you reacted when I first moved in, we thought you would know.”

If anything, Mrs Hudson becomes even more distressed. “How long have you…?”

“Just a few months,” John promises.

Sherlock clears his throat again and snatches the mail out of John’s hand. “John, she means this.” He shoves the top envelope in front of John’s face.

John grabs it. “It’s a letter from the counseling clinic we staked out, what?”

“Addressed to,” Sherlock prompts. 

“To, oh God.”  _Mr & Dr Holmes-Watson._ The colour drains from John’s face. “That was for a case.”

“You got married for a case?” Mrs Hudson asks, still missing the boat. “Without inviting me?”

“We lied on paperwork,” Sherlock says.

“Of course we’d invite you to our fake wedding,” John says. “I mean, if we’d had one. Which we didn’t. We only had the case.”

“You’ll obviously be invited to the real one,” Serlock adds. “Matron of Honour, I’d imagine. There’s no one else who would fit.”

Mrs Hudson’s face crumbles, but in a much better way, and it keeps John from decking Sherlock then and there. 

“Theoretical,” John says quickly. “Theoretical real one, because no one has proposed and  _no one is proposing_.” He glares at Sherlock in the hopes of making a dent in that thick skull. When that fails, he pleads to Mrs Hudson with his eyes that she won’t get her hopes up. “It’s really much too soon to be thinking about that.”

Mrs Hudson simply smiles, a tearful expression, and says, “Sherlock, you ought to put your trousers on.” She pats both of them on the shoulder before she turns and climbs down the stairs, humming. 


	13. Not Particularly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you want to know why I always come back?" Prompted by PrettyArbitrary on Tumblr.

“Do you want to know why I always come back?” John demands. He flings his coat down on the back of his armchair. His shirt sticks to him, soaked at the cuffs and collar and damp at small of his back. “Hm? Do you?”

Standing beside the window, precisely where John left him hours ago, Sherlock says nothing. 

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in John’s general direction, the closest they’ve come to eye contact in two days. “What?”

“Do you want to know why I always come back?” 

Sherlock’s slow blink is aimed at the mirror, not at John. 

Hands clenched, shoulders aching from the strain, John waits. 

“No,” Sherlock says to the window. “Not particularly.”

John closes his eyes. He opens his fists. He curls them tight. “If I say it, will you even listen?”

He waits and the humid air turns thin. It dries up his mouth as his heart stammers protest against the cage of his ribs. 

“Mm,” Sherlock hums, as if on the phone with someone else. “No.”

“Right,” John says. He picks up his coat without opening his eyes. He pulls soaked fabric back against his chilled skin. He turns around and looks only to find his way out of the sitting room, down the stairs, out the front hall, and into the rain. Standing on the pavement, never turning around to look up at Sherlock in the window, John flags down a cab. 

 _This time_ , he promises himself.  _This is it._


End file.
